


the one good thing

by cowboylakay



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Semi-Canon Compliant, Sickness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:55:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25012000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboylakay/pseuds/cowboylakay
Summary: Arthur, at the end of his rope, thinks about Charles.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	the one good thing

Arthur knows he’s dying.

Has known it from the start, years ago as an unruly kid fighting for his life. He thought he’d meet his end at the hands of lawmen, emptying the wrong pocket, picking the wrong fight. Then Dutch saved him, fed him, clothed him, gave him something he never thought he’d have again after his mother passed and his father swung at the end of the rope— a family. A sense of belonging. Like he was  meant to be there, the world pitying him for the cards it drew for him and giving him the one good thing.

Years later, he thought the same thing when Charles Smith appeared in his life, everyday from that first one onwards. Arthur could recall scenes and flashes of that day; it was a bright, sunny morning that saw him awake, but Dutch and Hosea had already left even before that. It was a day of meandering about in camp, free from any errands and jobs— a completely idle day. It was past noon when he heard the Count and Silver Dollar’s hooves beat against the ground, turning him around from the wood he’d been to greet the two when he noticed another person situated behind Hosea.

“Arthur!” Dutch had called out, in the tone of voice of a father beckoning his son closer to see something good. He eyed the man dismounting behind Hosea with caution and curiosity. He was an imposing figure with an even imposing face, flattened into a stoic expression, the long, dark length of his hair rustling with every small move of his head, eyes assessing Arthur. Vaguely, he could recall staring at his arms.

“Dutch, Hosea,” Arthur greeted, waiting on an explanation. The man lingered behind them, as if he was as uncertain of his place there as Arthur was.

“We’ve got something good cooking up, Arthur,” Dutch told him, a charming grin on his face as he gesticulated broadly. “Blackwater. A city ripe with the beginnings of rich civilisation and capitalism. Jobs spanning from one end of West Elizabeth to the other,  _money_ to be made.” Then he turned slightly as if to present the man, his blue and white dotted shirt flexing to show even more curves and lines as he crossed his arms, “Now, Arthur, this is Mister Charles Smith. Mister Smith here would like to join us as we make our way west, isn’t that right?”

“It is,” Charles Smith replied, with a voice that was deep and smooth like the low hum of the wind on a quiet, summer night. Hosea chuckled, clapping him friendlily on the shoulder and gesturing towards him.

“He’s quite the tracker, Arthur. Knows the woods here like he’d grown them himself,” He laughed at his own joke then, his cough cutting it short, “He’ll be a fine addition to our ranks, don’t you agree?”

Arthur trusted his instincts often, which were nurtured by having to survive, and his instincts then had told him to trust Dutch and Hosea. Despite all that happened afterwards, all the regrets he had, all the times he didn’t trust a decision they had made, that had been the one of the things Arthur never second-guessed. On this trip down to memory lane, too far deep for him to stop going even deeper, he remembers the first time he kissed Charles, or rather, Charles kissed him.

It was the night before the mess that was the ferry heist. He’d been tired after a day of scoping out the city with Hosea when he returned to camp, exhausted from the mask the man had cooked up for him. Rather than join the large group by the campfire, he sought out some comfortable silence, and when he found Charles playing the harmonica by himself, he considered that as good as any.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Arthur had said after Charles put away his harmonica. “Where’d you learn to play?”

When Arthur looked at Charles, he saw a quiet but evident strength in him that none of the other men in camp had. He knew his punches and his grapples paled in comparison to Charles, who could fight with the strength of a bear and the dexterity of a coyote, but where there were those who would underestimate Arthur, there was no room for those mistakes with Charles.

Because of this, nothing prepared him for the gentle, small smile he received in response. “It was one of the things my father enjoyed, so he taught me how to play it,” Charles told him, crossing his strong arms across his chest. “I was young, then.”

Something like giddiness had bubbled in Arthur then, at the prospect of getting to know Charles better. While the others sang and drank merrily by the campfire in the centre of their camp, Arthur spent his night listening to Charles talk, more words in one evening compared to the whole time they’d known each other.

The sky was slowly brightening again to welcome the sun when it happened. It was an unexpected little thing; Arthur had expected for Charles to simply bid him goodnight, maybe thank him for the conversation. Not to say to him, “You tell me if this is too far,” and certainly not to touch his cheek with more gentleness than he will ever deserve and press soft, warm lips against his own chapped, cold ones.

A tornado of emotions had stormed its way through him and left him clinging for dear life. His mind, unruly as it was, instantly went to compare Charles to his past experiences, only to come up absolutely unfounded. It was tender, when he expected himself to be kept at the same distance as everyone else. It was hesitant, when he’d never seen Charles make a decision he wasn’t sure of. It was unique, in the exact way Arthur knew he was unique.

The moment, which had lasted for what was most likely a second, felt like it lasted forever, and that Arthur had been pulled from a reverie when Charles pulled away. Something in his expression must’ve been hilarious, judging from the smile that spread across Charles’ face, Arthur almost entranced as he looked at those lips that had just been on his and really  saw .

“Goodnight, Arthur,” Charles told him, in a way that reminded him how much he liked hearing Charles say his name, before walking away towards his lean-to and going to bed. Arthur, struck stupid, let his legs lead him to his cot and his body drop itself down onto it, eyes forcing themselves closed and letting sleep take him.

There had been no time to process or discuss the events of the night before. He and Hosea had gone into town to look into their lead as soon as the sun rose, when the commotion began. It was probably more than half of the gang, all of the able-bodied with the exception of Arthur and Hosea, in a shootout against Pinkertons and lawmen. Everything after that had been disaster after disaster, from escaping Blackwater, losing Jenny, Mac, and Sean, making their way through West Elizabeth to the north, the cold descending on them like hungry wolves. Davey, who’d been shot during the heist, died soon after they arrived in Colter.

Arthur didn’t even get the chance to think about what happened between him and Charles until they went hunting together. It dawned on him that this would be the first time they’d be alone together after that night before the heist, but instead of apprehension and uncertainty, he felt comforted at the prospect. Besides, he thought, he’d finally get to see the master hunter and tracker everyone claimed Charles to be.

He taught him how to use a bow, which he used correctly against two unaware bucks, before Charles pounced. As soon as the carcasses had been strapped to the rumps of their horses, his cold, uninjured hand came to rest on Arthur’s cheek while he scrambled to put his own gloved hands around Charles’ waist. The kiss was more double-sided this time around, Arthur no longer taken by surprise as he kissed Charles with the intent of a man who’d gone years without the taste of him.

It wasn’t until they’d both fallen against the snow, Arthur’s back against a tree as Charles’ hand slid across the padded shape of Arthur’s torso, the mares nickering and huffing as they stomped on the snow, that they decided to get moving and return to camp. They spoke no words as they mounted up, some things better left unsaid and simply understood. Later on, if anyone had noticed Arthur touching his lips in an almost dazed sort of fashion, they cared enough not to mention it.

He remembers the months after; staying in Horseshoe Overlook, a lot of his time spent with Charles as they hunted together and kissed far from camp, out in the open plains with as many souls to see them as fishes in the sky. In Clemens Point, with the vague feeling of time running out, his capture by the O’Driscolls, his uncertain return, losing Sean for real this time. Then the multilayered mess that was Shady Belle, or specifically, Saint Denis. The time he spent stranded in Guarma, miserable and exhausted and grieving.

Then, at Beaver Hollow, with his lungs burning, his body weakening, and every part of him dying in its own way. Feeling the gazes from people he once trusted on his back, watching him with a cold calculation akin to that of a snake looking for an opportunity to strike. Hearing the fear and uncertainty in Jack’s voice, scared in the way little children should be afraid of a bogeyman, not of a future they can’t see.

Through it all, still, he had Charles, who held his hand when the coughs overwhelmed him, who laid his head on his lap when Arthur felt the consumption overtake him, who spoke to him in that gentle but unpitying tone, who still treated him as capable and able to do good even in his final moments. Arthur personally forbade any kisses, any exchange of affection that involved Charles getting too close to his mouth. Some nights, when they fall asleep tangled together, he can feel warm lips press against his forehead, his cheek, his hands, anywhere they could reach. When he woke up on those mornings, he’d find his head buried into that broad, thick chest, arms wrapped securely around him, feeling safer than he should ever need to feel.

Arthur wheezes another breath in as the sun rises. It’s too late for him now, but Charles still has the rest of his life to live. Men like Charles — though there isn’t and will never be anyone like him — will live through the undeserved calamities the world throws at them and find themselves in the calm after the storm. Men like Arthur — and there are far too many of them in the world, though there’ll be one less — deserve what’s coming to them, what with the havoc they’ve wreaked and the lives they’ve taken. Men like Arthur, who dare to have one good thing in their life after causing so many others so much bad, are paid worse by the world, and his judgment day comes like a train coming straight at him.

The sun breeches the horizon, bathing the sky in swathes of orange. As he makes his peace on this body of rock he situated himself on, he thinks of soft, dark hair in his hands, and the tender press of warm lips against his.

**Author's Note:**

> i’m [lakay](https://cowboylakay.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
